Masqued in Candlelight
by Death'sDarkAngel
Summary: Sherlock is forced to attend the Met's annual charity ball without John, who ends up with a last minute emergency at the surgery and is unable to attend. As a result, a mysterious masked stranger seduces the consulting detective on the dance floor. Pure fluff.


**Just a quick one-time to entertain you on this Friday, my darlings!**

* * *

This was excruciating. Boring. _Dull_.

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms impatiently. He didn't know how he had let himself get talking into this. He shifted uncomfortably once again.

_Oh—that's right! Because _John_ wanted to come! But where is John? Not bloody _here_!_

It was the Met's annual charity ball and it was being hosted by none other than his overly posh arse of an older brother. At least one good think had come out of Lestrade's relationship with Mycroft. Lord only knew where this tedious event would have been held otherwise. Each year the event was worse than its predecessor-at least this year they were all holding onto a small glimmer of hope.

This evening had originally promised to be interesting; Mycroft organized the entire affair and hosted it at his personal estate, just forty-five minutes outside the city limits. Though he would never had admitted it aloud, Sherlock had been looking forward to the gala—that is until John called earlier this evening to inform him that there was an emergency at the surgery and he wasn't sure if he would be able to get away.

So now he was stuck here, surrounded by costumed revelers he wanted absolutely nothing to do with. At least if John was here, he would have been entertained. But no, he was sitting here alone in an outfit he couldn't decide whether he loved or absolutely hated.

The theme of this year's fiasco was Masquerade and Mycroft had insisted that everyone where some type of period garb. And of course one did not attend a masque without a mask—that was one accessory that was a must.

Sherlock had agreed to wear a costume only if it was on his own terms. His elder brother had agreed to anything he wanted so long as it got him to the party. The outfit he had chosen was stunning and cost a small fortune. He had chosen an eighteenth century style frock with breeches and a coat made of velvet in deep burnished silver. The jacket was richly embroidered with light blue flowers and accentuated with sterling highlights from hem to high collar. The silk vest he donned beneath it was just as magnificent. I was the same shade as the flora embroidered on the coat and it was detailed with tiny matching buds in that deep burnished silver.

The crowning glory of the whole ensemble was the mask. It was a fine example of Venetian craftsmanship, charcoal grey with sterling filigree set off by blue topaz crystals that tied around his head with a simple velvet ribbon.

He was a sight to see—oh yes indeed. His garb had been chosen with great care to complement his skin tone and to set off the startling blue of his eyes. He had turned many a head this evening. Upon agreeing to attend, the consulting detective had decided that he would use this event as perfect opportunity to finally ensnare his blogger. Unfortunately though, the one person he wanted to see him in such finery wasn't even present.

Besides Sherlock's horrible misfortune this evening, he couldn't help but acknowledge that Mycroft had done a fantastic job with creating the perfect ambiance in the ballroom. The giant crystal chandelier was lit to only half power and the sconces on the walls each held giant pillar candles. Along the edges of the great dance floor where tables draped in fine cream colored linens and each hosted a magnificent brass candelabra which was set ablaze by fourteen candles.

The soft flickering light provided just enough illumination for metals to glitter and jewel tones to shine forth in true radiance. The glow offered the revelers openness yet anonymity at the same time. They could dance in the light or steal away into the darkness. The candles were perfect for this, casting most of the cavernous room into shadows. There were many places ideal for performing dark deeds. It was the ultimate parallel to their lives—security through obscurity and the masks only heighten the effect.

It was obvious that the elder Holmes had learned well from their father when it came to hosting an event of this nature. It was very reminiscent of the balls their parents used to hold at the manor when Sherlock was still young. Well—they still held them, but he refused to attend. Any time in the past decade he'd felt obliged to actually turn up, Mummy would throw girl after girl into his path in an attempt to entice him. _Little does she know_, the consulting detective though with a hint of amusement. There was no skirt in all of England that could lure him into bed…

The dance floor, which lay beneath that large sparkling chandelier, was alive with swirls of color as bodies twirled and gyrated in sync to the music. With a great heavy sigh, Sherlock looked away from the revelry. There was nothing of interest for him to see there.

Suddenly there was presence just behind his right shoulder. He didn't need to look at the other man to know who it was.

"You know, this is a _party_, Sherlock. You might at least _try_ and enjoy yourself," Mycroft chided gently.

"There is nothing of interest here for me," the younger Holmes sneered.

Mycroft smiled knowingly and patted his sibling on the shoulder. "It is a shame that Doctor Watson is missing all the excitement. No doubt you would be more entertained if he were present…?"

Sherlock knew that his brother was trying to goad him into revealing his true feeling for John. It wasn't going to happen. He had agreed to come to this event only because his blogger had asked and in turn Mycroft had agreed to paid a small fortune for his outfit—let him deduce how Sherlock felt about the army doctor.

"Either way," Mycroft continued as if his sibling was a willing participant in this conversation, "you do look quite dashing this evening, Brother."

The detective gave a noncommittal response and was grateful when the politician finally moved away. For lack of anything better to do, Sherlock scanned the room once more. About five meters away, Sally Donovan, who was wrapped in a beautiful champagne colored Victorian dress, leaned against one of the great alabaster support pillars sipping from her drink. Her expression was open and friendly as she coquettishly engaged another woman who also had donned Victorian garb in black and gold. He watched the pair with detached interest for several moments before he realized that the unknown woman was Anthea.

_Well, there's something you don't see everyday_…

But soon that bored him too. He fished out his mobile and fired off a text.

_Where are you?_ ~SH

**The A&E.** ~JW

_John—what happened?_ ~SH

**I'm fine. Had to rush a patient here.** ~JW

_Any chance of you joining us this evening?_ ~SH

**I'm so sorry, Sherlock. Don't think so.** ~JW

**Give Greg and Mycroft my apologies, please.** ~JW

Sherlock tried not to be disappointed. He had only dressed up like a bloody peacock for John and now the doctor wasn't even going to make it. Tonight was supposed to be a game of courtly love, of seduction, but it looked like he was going to have to place his plans on hold and figure out how to seduce his blogger another way.

_Very well. Good luck with your patient._ ~SH

**Thanks. Need it with this one. Try to enjoy yourself—and behave!** ~JW

_You wound me, John._ ~SH

**Ha! Right. See you at home.** ~JW

The genius gritted his teeth in frustration. It was still quite early in the evening so there was no chance of him convincing his brother to have car take him back to Baker Street. There was nothing no one of interest for him to talk to either—if there had been one person worth speaking to, he might have found this whole thing less painful.

The guest list consisted of a proverbial who's who of London's elite. All the posh wealthy bastards he would have preferred he didn't know were in attendance, as were most of Mycroft's political connections and his cronies. Of course there were also about four dozen officers from the Met, including the idiotic chief. With company like this, the only person worth talking to was DI Lestrade—but to do so required him to also speak with his brother.

_Ah, wedded bliss!_ Sherlock thought with just a slight hint of bitterness. Greg and Mycroft were still in that honeymoon phase of their marriage and rarely let the other out of their sight during things like this. He was truly happy for them, he was. Both his brother and the DI deserved someone who understood the importance of their respective work and could still offer support and understand when certain things just couldn't be shared. They had found that in each other.

If Sherlock was being honest with himself—and he had been trying to make a concerted effort as of late—he was jealous of their relationship. He wanted what they had. If he took his self-honesty even further, he could admit that he wanted that with John. They were closer now than they had ever been. In the past few months they had shared an increased number of lingering touches over cups of tea, heated stares over a crime scene, but it hadn't progressed to anything beyond that. Well, it looked like tonight wasn't going to further that cause either.

Sherlock stood and stretched. It seemed like a good time to take a stroll through the gardens. Before that though, his gaze swept back over the party goers one more time. On his second scan, he noticed a figure leaning against the pillar directly opposite him.

The man was dressed in nineteenth century garb: classic black trousers, fitted coat with tails, and red brocaded satin waistcoat. The man also wore a black ascot which was tacked with a single white pearl. His traditional Victorian look was made complete with a satin top hat and spotless white gloves. The mask he wore was also a plain white with no decoration or distinguishing features to speak of—other than the fact that it covered his entire face. This stranger was not unlike many of the other revelers, yet he stood out amongst them.

When the stranger noticed him watching, he held up his champagne flute in a silent toast. In spite of himself, Sherlock found himself smiling and dipped his head in acknowledgment. The other man didn't move from his station. He leaned casually against the pillar and kept his head turned in the detective's direction the entire time. The genius could not see the man's eyes, but he assumed that they were watching him nonetheless.

Despite his better judgment, he was intrigued. Since he was going to be stuck here for quite some time, he might as well entertain himself somehow—with or without his blogger. Sherlock mimicked the stranger's posture. They stood there staring at one another through the duration of three complete dances.

A waiter passed by and asked Sherlock if he wanted another drink. Aggravated at the interruption, the consulting detective impatiently waived him away. When he turned back to face his query, Sherlock was disappointed to discover that the man was no longer there.

He sighed for what had to be the twentieth time that evening. The genius was reconsidering stepping out into the gardens when he saw that lithe body slip in between the dancers. The mysterious Victorian gentleman was headed straight for him.

* * *

On the other side of the ballroom, Greg tapped his husband on the elbow to get his attention. Mycroft turned in the same direction of the DI's gaze to see what had caught his lover's eye.

"Oh," he responded in an amused tone. "This should be _very_ interesting…"

Chuckling, Lestrade said, "I believe you're right. I can't wait to see how this is going to turn out."

"Well, I hope," the elder Holmes confided.

With a fond smile for his younger brother-in-law, Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. With a soft noise of contentment, the politician leaned back against his spouse and together they watched an interesting new dance unfold before them.

* * *

The stranger stopped about four steps away from him and offered a courtly bow. Amused, Sherlock returned the gesture. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, the Victorian phantom materialized a single red rose and handed it to the detective.

Sherlock reached out hesitantly to accept the gift. The stranger's gloved fingers momentarily caressed his as the rosebud exchanged hands. He was unable to repress the shiver that coursed through this body at the light touch.

"Thank you," the genius murmured.

The phantom placed his right hand over his heart and dipped his head, letting the younger Holmes know that it was indeed his pleasure.

This was oddly intriguing. There were no distinguishing features visible on this stranger; he was completely covered from head to toe. His gloves extended up into his sleeves past his wrists. While this close, Sherlock discovered that the mask actually covered his entire head so that not even his hair was discernible. The eyeholes were covered with that special black fabric that could be seen out of but not in, so the stranger's eyes remained a mystery as well. The consulting detective was unable to learn anything from the other's build or height, as there were too many possibilities to consider just based on those factors alone.

"Are you enjoying the evening thus far?" Sherlock asked.

The phantom nodded and gestured between the two of them in answer.

Raising an eyebrow, the genius clarified, "You find this between us enjoyable?"

There was another nod.

"I take it that you're more the strong, silent type. Am I correct?"

The stranger shrugged and spread his hands out in front of him-as if to say, _If you like_.

Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that spread across his face. "I assume it's pointless to ask your name. You won't tell me, will you?"

Phantom shook his head.

"Well then, Sir, may I inquire as to your intentions?" the detective pressed.

The stranger gestured to the dance floor, clearly asking for permission.

"What—you want me to dance with you?" Sherlock questioned in surprise.

Bending at the waist, the phantom held out his gloved right hand in invitation.

The detective glanced around briefly, taking in the others around them. No one else seemed worried or alarmed by this mystery man's presence. He wasn't giving off any bad vibes either, so Sherlock threw caution to the wind and accepted the hand.

He could feel the heat from the stranger's hand through the thin material of the glove and the gentle strength in his fingers. When they touched, Sherlock had felt a jolt of electricity course between them. Startled, he stared into those black orbs of the mask, knowing that the eyes behind them were watching his intently. Without his consent, the consulting detective felt his pulse ratchet up several notches.

But before he could think too much on that, Phantom had swept him onto the dance floor proper and they joined the throng of whirling dancers in a waltz. Song after song played on as this strange couple spiraled around one another. Sherlock knew every piece and every dance, having learned from an early age. It appeared his partner did as well. It was strange for the genius not to be the one leading, but then he had never danced at a ball with another man before either.

"I must admit that this is intriguing," Sherlock advised his companion half way through their fourth dance. "You have a grand gift for silence. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."

Though there was no verbal reply, the detective could feel the silent laughter from the stranger's body. He had never craved the closeness of another, but tonight, Sherlock found it irresistible. And the mystery of this man before him had aroused him in inexplicable ways.

He was just about to ask that they stop for a drink when the beat of the music morphed into a sultry Latin number. Sherlock had never heard it before, but his partner seemed familiar with it. There were squeals of excitement from several of the ladies around them who recognized the piece.

It seemed that there were suddenly more people flooding onto the dance floor. Sherlock found himself crushed up against the Victorian clad stranger. They were closer than he had been to another person in a very long time. Too long in fact. The one thing he could tell about this phantom was that his cologne was expensive and spicy. He smelled delicious.

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled, becoming aroused as his hips brushed against his partner's. A firm hand pulled him closer and he gasped as he felt the answering hardness in the stranger's trousers. At the same moment, they both ceased moving and stared at each other.

Before he could register what was happening, Sherlock found himself being led into one of the darkened recesses of the cavernous room. He glanced back out towards the main floor and discovered that they were in one of Mycroft's well placed nooks.

"What are your intentions, Sir?" the genius asked with a hint of nervous excitement in his voice.

Without warning, the stranger pressed him up against the cool wall and pinned his hands above his head. That lithe, deliciously strong body leaned into his and rubbed their straining bulges against one another. He could feel the intense burn of those dark eyes on him.

This was so incredibly fascinating! The only person who had been able to turn him on this much was John.

The friction was driving him insane. Then before he could process their activities any further, Sherlock was spun around to face the wall. Nimble fingers tugged at the stays of his trousers.

That strong chest pressed his torso against the cool stone façade. His mind blanked when a gloved hand snaked into his pants to caress his hard length. He threw his head back against his companion's shoulder and turned into his neck.

"Oh God!" Sherlock moaned. "What are you doing to me?"

"Shh…" was the only answer he received. And it wasn't enough to discern his companion's voice.

That gloved hand continued to stroke his erection at a maddeningly slow pace. Sherlock had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from crying out at the pleasure of it.

As those covered fingers stroked from base to tip then back down again, he was aware that he would more than likely have cloth burns tomorrow. He found that he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock was trembling beneath the phantom, barely remaining upright if not for the other's support.

"Going to—" he choked out a warning as best he could.

There was a shift of that scintillating hand and Sherlock was aware of a different textured cloth embracing his erection. His hazy mind belatedly realized that it was silk. The difference in the grain was just enough to cause him to tumble over the edge.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Sherlock's eyes slammed shut and as he climaxed, John's name escaped his lips. His companion was silent as ever as he held the detective through the tremors raking his body. When the shaking stopped, the stranger tucked him back into his trousers and redid the stays.

The phantom turned to leave, but before he could take more than two steps away, Sherlock reached out and grabbed a hold of his wrist.

"Wait—I don't even know who you are," the genius stammered.

He turned to see the stranger tuck a silk handkerchief into his trouser pocket. Sherlock then realized that there was no mess either on the wall or on his own person. He glanced back down at that hankie and felt a wave of uncharacteristic affection for this stranger for being so considerate.

Phantom shook his head, indicating that he still would not give the consulting detective a verbal response. Sherlock could admit that he was disappointed. He had just experienced the single most erotic encounter of his life with a complete stranger.

Sensing his discomfort, the stranger carefully removed his tie tack and ascot. He held up the black silk, indicating that he wanted to blindfold the genius. Phantom pantomimed that if Sherlock permitted, he would remove his mask and allow the detective to touch his face.

Sherlock didn't verbally reply either. He regarded the stranger for a long moment before closing his eyes and submitting himself to the blindfold. Phantom tied the ascot securely around his head so not even a stray flicker of candlelight shone through. Satisfied with his work, the stranger removed his mask and reached down to guide Sherlock's hands to his face.

The genius let his long digits wander over the smooth planes of that unknown face. He delicately brushed eyelids and lashes, dipping lower to ghost his fingertips across the man's soft lips. Sherlock could feel the stranger's breath catch at the sensation.

It was then that he made a bold move and palmed the phantom's cheeks and brought their lips together. The stranger barely stifled a moan as Sherlock slipped his tongue into that unseen mouth.

He wanted desperately to see his companion, to know who his seducer was. To look upon the man who tasted of champagne and strawberries, to discover who had the ability to captivate him like only one other had ever done.

As their kiss turned nearly frantic, Phantom pulled away suddenly, gasping for air. He wrestled himself out of Sherlock's grip and fled back into the crowd before the genius could pull off the silk blindfold.

The consulting detective spent the next half hour searching the crowd for his mystery lover, but it was to no avail. Whoever the stranger was, he was long gone. Feeling oddly melancholy, he finally sought out his brother. Sherlock had endured enough of the party that even Mycroft could not deny his request.

Without asking for an explanation, the elder Holmes called for one of his drivers to take Sherlock back to Baker Street.

Greg laid a hand on his husband's back as they watched the younger Holmes flee. With a chuckle, the DI leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on Mycroft's neck.

"Well—that went well I believe," he whispered conspiratorially.

The politician allowed a fond smile to cross his face as he thought about his little brother's predicament. "Yes, I believe it did."

"Thank God! Let's just hope this was the push he needed," Greg stated. "Do you think Sherlock has any idea?"

"Oh, that's the best part," Mycroft replied, uncontained amusement lacing his voice. "I seriously doubt he has it figured out yet…"

Greg laughed again at the thought of a clueless Sherlock. It was so rare that he had to cherish the idea when it presented itself.

"I suspect we shall receive that happy announcement yet," declared Mycroft as he interlinked his spouse's fingers with his own.

* * *

As soon as the car stopped in front of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock flung the door open and bolted up the steps to his flat. It was oddly silent. He thought that John would have been home from the A&E by this point.

Normally the two refrained from discussing their sexual history, but Sherlock was so on edge right now that he needed to talk to _someone_ about his experience. John was the only person he felt comfortable enough with to divulge that kind of information to.

Once it became clear that his blogger was not be found on the lower level of their flat, Sherlock bound up the additional stairs to the doctor's bedroom. He knocked hesitantly and called out for his flat mate.

"John! Are you awake? I need to talk to you—" without further consideration, he flung the door wide open only to discover the room was empty.

Sherlock took several tentative steps into the chamber and glanced around. Everything was in its proper place, neat and orderly like the military man who lived there. Just when he was about to give up and leave, something caught his eye. A glint of metal sparkled in the moonlight on John's nightstand. Curiosity getting the better of him, he walked over to retrieve it.

He gasped in shock as he lifted that familiar pearl tie tack. He was so enraptured that failed to hear the footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Ah. I knew I should have put that away," John said behind him.

Sherlock whirled around to find his blogger leaning causally against the doorframe. He raked his eyes over the doctor's clothing.

John stayed silent as the detective took in his Victorian garb, complete with his red brocade vest. He was missing his mask and his ascot, which was still clenched in Sherlock's left hand.

_This is what shock must feel like_, the genius thought to himself. _That's it—I must be in shock. No other explanation fits._

"That was you," Sherlock stated, bemused.

The doctor smiled at his best friend's confusion. The genius must have been utterly surprised since he felt the need to restate the obvious.

"Yes, it was. I thought that much was clear," John finally answered. "I was sure you had me figured out when you said my name…"

Sherlock offered the patent half smile he reserved solely for his blogger. "Wishful thinking. And here I was planning on seducing _you_ this evening! How ever did you manage this?"

John laughed and responded, "With help from Greg and Mycroft, of course. And the lifts in my shoes to throw you off from guessing it was me based on my height."

They stood there for several long moments staring at each other in silence before the doctor spoke up again.

"You know…it's not too late if you still plan on seducing me tonight…"

And that was all the incentive Sherlock needed before he tumbled his blogger into bed.


End file.
